


Must Be Tuesday

by amidtheflowers



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Eventual Everything, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Slow Build, a whole mess of dorks being dorks over each other, bastardized djinn mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-05-29 18:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amidtheflowers/pseuds/amidtheflowers
Summary: With the loss of Riley, and then the death of her mother, Buffy wishes for a soulmate to help deal. Only she gets haunted by William Pratt and a resouled Spike who's last memory was being burned to ashes while helping her close the Hellmouth. Armed with the gentleman that is William and the knowledge from future Spike's past, Buffy begins seeing presently chipped Spike in a whole new light.





	1. Wish Granted

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've started a new fic here, for a pair I've been thinking about quietly for several months now. I hope you enjoy this fic. It is a challenge by javajunkie247 over at Elysian Fields, and it really struck to my muse. The beautiful banner below is made by them as well :)
> 
> **Disclaimer** : Buffy and its respective characters belong solely to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, along with everyone involved in creating this series. None of this belongs to me; I just like playing in their sandbox.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

**Must Be Tuesday**

**-:-**

**Chapter 1:** Wish Granted

**-:-**

Amidst a swirling cloud of ash and smoke, with distant laughter echoing through the Djinn realm, Afret sat on the rim of a volcano, lost in deep thought.

The offerings from Alf’s last summons flicked idly in his hands. Some golden teeth (gums and all), and a celestial moonstone. Another goddamn celestial moonstone. Alf tossed both behind him into the volcano, hearing them sizzle into the bubbling magma below.

It was hard to admit it, but he had to now. This should’ve been it. This summons should’ve fixed his unrest—there’d been bloodshed, a doomed war, demonic possession, and a delicious exchange of goods and services that let him do all the things djinnis prided themselves on. But it hadn’t helped. None of it. Instead he was sitting here, on the edge of his realm, reflecting on eight thousand years of mischief and the emptiness it now left him in.

Put simply, Alf was bored.

He’d thought he’d still have at least four more millennia to go before he lost interest, but he was wrong. _Too_ wrong. How did every dimension in existence, parallel _and_ nonlinear, become so dreadfully and predictably dull?

There’d been a time when he enjoyed his kind’s particular brand of service. A little torture here, a sprinkle of suffering there. Kill a mortal or twenty thousand; steal and lie and cheat the fools who dared summon him. Even watching the sheer, gormless terror that swept into a human’s eye when he revealed his true form lost its zest. He was zestless.

“Still there, Alfie?” Merry nudged him lightly on his sizzling shoulder. Shit. He forgot he’d been in the middle of a conversation when he realized how fucking bored he was.

“I’m fucking bored,” said Alf. “And I thought we agreed Alfie was off the table.”

“You say that every century.”

“I _mean_ it every century.”

“You’d be angrier if I actually listened.”

Alf sent a small fireball in Merry’s direction. Predictably, it extinguished before it could touch him.

“We’re worried about you, man. You haven’t been out with the boys in the last decade. We haven’t even seen you drink any sacrificial blood lately. Blood!”

“I know,” Alf winced.

“You love blood. The last two offerings were virginal. _Virginal_ , Alf. You used to love that.”

“I know, I know I did. But I did just come off my own summons.” He nodded at the pit of the volcano where his trophies now disintegrated.

“Yeah,” Merry gave a wry glance at the edge of the volcano, “and _that_ really seemed to help.” He shook his head. “The hell is going on, dude?”

Alf ran a tired hand over his face and let out a sad little sigh. “It’s all the same, Merry. I thought when the big man upstairs made us, he had guaranteed us a lifetime of fun. New shit every day. But it’s not, is it? Just the same torture. Same flayed rich man with rivers of blood and ransom. Same dumbasses who summon us with their talismans and _bottles_ —”

“I hated that phase when mortals used bottles and oil lamps.”

“—and I feel like there should be something more. Something….just something. You know?”

Merry narrowed his eyes curiously. “You turning white hat?”

Alf snorted.

Then thought about it.

“Good god, man.”

“I’m _bored_ , Marid.”

Merry gave Alf a long-suffering look before retrieving an orb from his back pocket. “These are the new requests in the sixteen-billionth dimension. The mortals are only just getting on their feet, so there should be plenty of…noble endeavors here. See if you like any.”

Alf accepted the orb with surprise. “You were carrying this?”

Merry shrugged. “Like I said, me and the boys have been worried. And to be honest, Alfie, we kinda knew about the bored torture routine thing.”

With a final, parting pat on Alf’s flaming shoulder, Merry rose up and glided away.

Alf looked at the orb nervously. It was pale and innocuous, like all summons orbs. Unless specifically requested, any djinni could listen in to a wish and accept the job. Unlike most of his kind, though, Afret was not an anonymous entity to be called upon. The universe had his name. It was a foolish mistake in his early wish-granting years, one Marid _—Merry—_ had made as well; he’d revealed his name during a summons, and time and space had written it down no matter where he went. Every dimension knew of Afret of the Djinn.

Mortals knew him. Knew how dangerous he was. He who massacred legions of men at the behest of one wish—only to cruelly slay him and his loved ones as a fair price. It’s what made his summon requests less and less, as more people—demon and mortal alike—grew wary of striking a deal with him.

But _he_ was still free to grant any wish he wanted, should he answer a summons. A human, a talisman, and his service would be theirs.

_But this?_ Alf twist the orb in his fingers. He could feel the…the _goodness_ and the innocence of these wishes seeping through the glass. An infant dimension, answering white hat wishes. A millennia ago he would’ve laughed outright. But now…

Alf sat up straight and lifted the orb to his gaze. Catching the deep, viscous swirling mist inside, Alf let the wishes pour through his mind in a deep flurry.

_…Bring my aunt back home, please, I will do anything…_

_—and kill the bastard, him and his gang—_

_—don’t want this to be an issue, let someone else deal with it—_

_—help me._

Alf’s eyes opened. He zeroed in on the soft voice, the softest of pleas that was still echoing around in his ears. He peered closely into the orb, navigating through the wishes, until the sight came forth.

A young girl, with honey blonde hair and bright green eyes. She sat in a large bedroom at the edge of a floral printed bedspread, rubbing her thumb idly on an oil lamp. _Fucking oil lamps_ , Alf groused internally. He could tell this particular one had never been used before now, so he could forgive it just this once. Focusing now, Alf listened intently to the girl with her wish.

… _I wish my soulmate could be here, so they could help me through this. Through everything, forever._

Alf almost dismissed the wish entirely. Soulmates were a soup of cosmic fuckery that even djinnis seldom dealt with. They were too unpredictable, unreliable, and teetered on the edge of the ‘can we, can’t we’ line of what his powers could actually grant. Forcing love was out of his jurisdiction.

…But this wasn’t actually demanding love, was it? Alf listened to the wish again carefully. And again. Huh.

Who was this girl? He could feel through the wish the depth of sorrow and loss she was experiencing. Everyone had a sad story to defend their wish; nothing out of the ordinary. This one had something else to it, though, a flavor he couldn’t quite identify.

Alf singled out the honey-haired girl from the orb and projected her forward, flickering her in an imitation of televised display. “Alright,” he murmured, flicking his finger. “Let’s see who you are.”

Dozens of images rolled in front of him—the girl smiling, laughing with her friends—the girl grimacing, holding a bleeding shoulder as demons launched themselves at her (this made Alf’s eyes widen with surprise)—the girl snarking something fiercely and somewhat petulantly as she retracted a wooden stake from a dusting vampire.

Oh ho HO! A slayer! A real slayer! He grinned gleefully. Oh, he hadn’t seen one of these in _ages_. “But this is odd,” Alf thought aloud. “What is a slayer doing wishing for soulmates?”

He flicked his finger again and saw a sped-up reel of the lovers in the girl’s life. Alf hissed in disgust. “Ugh. Gross. Why humans need so much copulation is beyond me.” He saw another image, of her thrusting a sword into her undead lover. Another of the lover returning from hell (Alf recognized that hell dimension and rolled his eyes; it wasn’t _that_ terrible of a place). Another of him leaving, and returning, before leaving. Again and again. Her latest love, a meaty-looking mortal, had just left as well. Oooh, and her mother’s death. _Bingo_. And what was this about a hellgod?

“ _Glorificus?_ ” Alf was outright giggling now. “Holy shit! That little rat got booted from her own realm.”

A slayer, a soulmate, and a hellgod. Alf started grinning. Oh, this sounded fun. Completely lame, but this could be fun. And new. And a slayer! None of his buddies ever struck a deal with a slayer—though that could be attested mostly to their hairsbreadth of a lifespan.

Regardless, this was it. Oh yes, this would be excellent. Just the pick-me-up Alf needed. Rising from the rim of the volcano, Alf shook out his shoulders and tossed the orb back and forth between his hands.

“Right then. Let’s see your soulmate.”

A second image flickered to life. Alf tilted his head thoughtfully as hundreds of images meshed together of the man meant to be hers, both of what had passed and what was yet to come.

“Alright, Buffy Summers,” Alf smiled, “your wish is granted.”

Throwing the orb into the air, he watched it shatter into a massive, yawning portal. With a sure jump, Afret of the Djinn crossed through the portal and fell straight into Buffy Summers’ room.

**-:-**

Buffy rubbed her eyes blearily as she closed the door to Dawn’s room. It had taken them an hour to stop the weeping and even more to get her to bed. Not that Buffy wasn’t an equal and participating party of the weeping. Because she more than was. Still, in the end, she was the grownup and she had to put Dawn to bed.

Buffy paused on her way to her room and glanced at the one across the hall. She wanted to look away, but the rawness of her confession to Dawn was still fresh and smarting. Heart aching, Buffy went to the master bedroom.

Joyce Summers was everything that was classic elegance and seasoned art historian. A sharp contrast to Buffy’s faded boy band posters, Joyce had tasteful artwork hanging along the walls, well-placed pieces that were almost certainly priceless. The bed was neatly made, the clothes hung and pressed, the bathroom spotless. She was a mom and an adult with hobbies and everything Buffy couldn’t bring herself to be.

She sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The silence in the house was deafening. The zinging emptiness in her mother’s bedroom rang in her ears. Lips trembling, Buffy pressed her fingers against her eyes and hunched over.

“I can’t do this,” she said quietly.

Being a slayer was to be alone, but Buffy had always thought that in the tail end of it, she wouldn’t feel this alone. She had people who loved her. People worth fighting for. But this?

Buffy hastily wiped her eyes and glanced almost accusingly around the bedroom. She resented every second of this. Slowly, everything she loved was leaving. Isolating her. Even Riley couldn’t pretend with her anymore that things would be okay. Her sacred duty was killing her—it was going to kill Dawn, and then it would kill her. Then it would take her friends, the whole of humanity, and finally upend very ground of the earth in which her mother now rested six feet underneath.

A glimmer of gold caught Buffy’s eye as she brushed away an errant tear. An oil lamp sat on Joyce’s night stand. It was elegant and clearly part of her mother’s collection of historical oddities, now purely decorative. Buffy reached forward and picked it up, carefully rubbing the surface gently.

“ _Prince Ali, mighty is he, Ali Ababwa,_ ” Buffy sang under her breath, snorting at the silliness of it. “What I’d give for a magical genie to make all this go away.”

_And what? What would that solve?_ Buffy’s mind reprimanded. Using powerful hand-wavy magic wouldn’t fix anything. She had to do this herself. It’s how it’s meant to be.

But if she _could_ …if she could have a harmless hand-wavy magical wish, she’d let herself be selfish. Just the once. The world took her body, her life, loved ones. But she wanted at least _this_ for herself.

Buffy exhaled softly, sadly. She replaced the lamp on the table, letting her thumb brush against it once more. “If I could? I’d wish for someone who’d stand by me and never leave. I wish…” she lost herself in thought. “I wish my soulmate could be here. So they could help me through this. Through everything, forever _._ ”

Buffy let go of the lamp with a bitter smile. “But that’s not happening any time soon.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Buffy jumped up at the sound of the voice and whirled around. A sharp inhale through her mouth was all she allowed at the sight of the man standing in front of her, before grabbing a letter knife on the night stand. He gave no resistance when Buffy pushed him back onto the bed and pressed the blade against his neck.

“I wouldn’t bother doing that, either,” the man said mildly, eyeing the letter opener with amusement.

“If you’re here for petty theft, you picked the wrong house to burgle, buddy,” Buffy said through her teeth. He smiled ominously. When his eyes flashed red, Buffy reared her head back a little, then narrowed her eyes. “Especially if you’re a demon.”

A look of revulsion overcame him. “Me? A _demon?_ You’re lucky I’m already granting your wish—I could have you ass for that kind of insult.”

Buffy yelped when his formerly solid body became transparent, and Buffy fell face-first into the bed. She rolled off quickly and darted up to see the man now sitting atop the dresser.

No. _Levitating_ over it.

“Uh, newsflash—not of the human? Puts you straight in the demon category. And soon to be ash on my mother’s carpet.”

“Yes,” the red-eyed man with coal-fire hair nodded with understanding. “Her passing wouldn’t stop your slaying. You’re too _good_ for that, aren’t you.”

Everything in her body froze. Terror threatened to climb up her throat. He knew her. This guy knew her, and knew about her family. Ice gripped her heart at the thought that he could be working with Glory.

“You have five seconds to start talking before I kill you.”

Her words left him unfazed, as if he’d heard this all his life. Instead he looked at her steadily, red eyes flickering like flames.

When he opened his mouth, it was _her_ voice that rang back at her. “ _I wish my soulmate could be here, so they could help me through this. Through everything, forever._ ” The man then smiled at her shocked expression. “Surprise! Your mortal wish is granted.”

What?

_WHAT!_

“I didn’t mean it,” she blurted, ignoring the absurdity behind it. The red-eyed man raised an eyebrow. “I—I was crying, and it was silly, and I—”

“Meant it,” he finished. “A wish is a wish. You used the lamp. You meant every word. I answered your summons, little mortal, you should be happy.”

“Well I’m not,” Buffy gritted her teeth. “I’m returning the wish. Full refund. Now get out of my house.”

“You would return the soulmate you could have?” the red-eyed man said with incredulity. Buffy paused, eyes going wide.

“I…”

The man’s expression settled into something calm, comforting. “Your soulmate _could_ be here. Do you want that?”

_Yes,_ she thought. The man smiled, as if hearing her answer.

“He _could_ help you. Everything, forever. Do you accept?”

Buffy’s breath lodged in her throat. She stared at him, eyes wide, unwilling to voice what her mind was saying on repeat.

He must have heard it anyway, for he nodded once. “Wish granted.” He was in front of her in a blink, his left hand resting atop her head with his thumb between her eyebrows. “In return, I will have two pints of your blood and one hour of your time.”

“What? You—”

But the world now swarmed in black, and Buffy had fallen in a dead sleep on her mother’s bed. She did not hear the disgruntled words that followed: “God, I hate wearing a people suit. Human flesh is disgusting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked this so far. I've set up the stage, from here on out there will be an excess of a certain bleached blond. xx
> 
> The Djinn mentioned in this fic do exist in early (and pre) Arabian mythology. Their names and their dangerous mischief are real--the snarky dialogue, however, is all mine ;)


	2. It Comes In Twos

**Chapter 2:** It Comes In Twos

-:-

Soft sunlight poured through the gap between the curtains and landed squarely on Buffy’s closed eyelids. She grimaced, wrinkling her nose and burying her face into the pillow. Its familiar floral scent drew a soft smile to her lips, and she sighed deeply.

Beside her, a soft sigh echoed in reply.

Buffy’s eyes flew open with a start. A man was in her bed. A man with sleepy, oceanic blue eyes, eyes that blinked in confusion and stared right back at her. Buffy let out a shriek.

He screamed louder and floundered off the mattress in a tangle of legs and sheets. Those eyes had been unmistakable. _And those cheekbones_ , a thought piped up unhelpfully in the back of her mind, which she mentally shoved back. Buffy jumped to her feet and rounded the bed. “Spike, what the _hell_ are you doing in here?”

Struggling beneath the sheets, she heard a muffled, “W-what?”

Buffy yanked the unruly sheet off of him and threw it on the bed. Spike looked up at her, bewildered…and with a mop of brown, curly hair.

“Oh my god.” She snickered despite herself. “What did you do to your hair?”

He gaped. “E-E-Elizabeth?”

Buffy looked at him incredulously. His expression was gobsmacked, lost, then indignant. “I say, Elizabeth.” He shot to his feet and put his hands on his hips, startling her. “T-That is rather rude. You’ve always said you loved my hair.” His expression wilted. “Unless you didn’t actually mean it…”

A pang of guilt went through her, and Buffy found herself saying, “No, it’s not—it’s kinda pretty actually, and my foot is always in my m—hey!” Buffy scowled accusingly. “Stop trying to make me feel bad.” She started looking around for something sharp and wooden. “How the hell did you get in here, Spike? And in my mother’s _bed?_ ” She smiled sweetly. “The slower you answer the faster something pointy and wooden will be shoved in your chest.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to, Elizabeth. This is my home. And Spike? Who’s spiked?” He drew closer, tilting his head and glancing down at himself. “Have you forgotten me so quickly?”

Buffy paused, taking a moment to really take him in. His accent was more clipped, his clothing was odd and flourishing…and he was standing in full, bright sunlight without so much as a sizzle.

“What…” Buffy looked at him closely. It looked like Spike, it sounded like Spike, but that was as far as similarities went. His cheeks began to pinken under her intense scrutiny and Buffy’s eyes rounded comically.

“You’re human!”

“I…yes?”

He stared at her, his expression slipping from embarrassment to concern. If this was Spike as a human, did it make him William? Pre-Bloody years? She remembered what Spike had said about his human life, the little bits he’d shared when she’d asked him about the previous slayers he killed. He’d called himself poncey, and while Buffy didn’t exactly know what that meant, she knew it was meant to be an insult.

Though looking at him now, a very human William standing before her, she wasn’t sure it was as bad as Spike made himself out to be.

His hair was in disarray from falling out of the bed, but the light, wavy curls were unmistakable. She noted it grew a little long in the back, and he was wearing long trousers with an overlight shirt that flowed well past normal sleepwear. It was a stark antithesis of who Spike presented himself as now. She doubted that was coincidence.

“Spell,” she murmured faintly, still absorbing the fidgeting man in her mother’s bedroom. “Must be…a spell. Giles…”

“Elizabeth, are you alright? Shall I fetch the doctor? You have me a bit…worried.” He shifted a little uncomfortably, no longer meeting her eyes. “I don’t know how you came about my bedroom, either. N-not that I’m complaining!” He lurched towards her earnestly, and Buffy instinctively took a step back. He flinched a little when she did. “Please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean it in an unkind way.”

“I’m not angry,” said Buffy, then paused. “No, wait, yes I am. Explain yourself right now. How did you get here?” When he opened his mouth, Buffy held up her hand emphatically. “Five words or less.”

William blinked, swallowing hard. Then, holding up a hand and counting off on his fingers, he cleared his throat and said, “This. Is. My. Home….Elizabeth.”

“No,” Buffy said slowly. “This is _my_ home. Casa de la Buffy.”

Unexpectedly, William’s apprehension suddenly cleared up into the gentlest of smiles. “Oh, heart. It is your home. It _is_. And it will be. Forever.”

Whatever questions she had before now fled at the soft conviction of his words. “Eh?”

He drew closer, lifting a hand to touch her shoulder but curling his fingers just before he could. “I know our feelings for each other are…very strong…but it won’t be very much longer, now. Mother will come, and she will love you the moment she sets eyes on you.”

It was Buffy’s turn to be gobsmacked. “Huh?”

William gave her a soft, patient smile. “We simply must be strong and wait to be wed.”

“ _What!_ ” Buffy pointed a trembling finger at him. “There is no—there will be no—what is this? H-how are you—and this isn’t your room!”

“Elizabeth—”

“ _My name’s not Elizabeth!_ ”

He swallowed visibly and nodded. “Let me fetch the doctor. Please.” Without another word he walked out of her mother’s bedroom and disappeared down the hall. Buffy followed after him, watching him turn into her own bedroom.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on but—”

Buffy froze at the threshold to her room. William was gone.

In his place was Spike, standing in the center of her room. Spike as she knew him—bleached hair, scarred eyebrow, dressed head to toe in black with a leather duster to boot. And he was staring at her, eyes wide and mouth parted in shock.

“What…” Spike should his head, looking first at his hands, then back at her face with wonder. “Buffy?”

He gazed at her like he hadn’t seen her in years; like he hadn’t expected to see her ever again. He took a tentative step forward.

“How…how’d you do that?” Buffy glanced around the room, looking for the other brown-haired, human William. “How did you change so fast?”

Spike shook his head again. He continued to stare at her with disbelief and the barest threads of hope. “I should be burning. I burned.”

Buffy’s head hurt. “I don’t have time for this. I swear if this is a new sick game of yours, pain is the last of your worries.”

He tilted his head, just as William had, looking confused and more than a little hurt. But before he could reply, the sound of Dawn’s voice startled them both.

“Hey, you’re up already,” Dawn said with a smile as she walked towards Buffy. She was still in her pajamas, clearly having just rolled out of bed with her hair sticking up at the end.

“Bit…” Spike froze to the spot as Dawn leaned against the doorjamb.

“Yeah, no thanks to _him_.” Buffy glared at Spike.

Dawn glanced around the room in confusion. “To who?”

“You don’t see him?”

“See who? I think somebody should probably get another hour of sleep,” Dawn yawned. “And hey, I can make breakfast! Scout’s honor I won’t burn the kitchen this time.” She paused. Then in a sudden, impulsive move, Dawn grabbed Buffy around the shoulders and hugged her tightly. “Thanks for last night.” Dawn flashed Buffy a hesitant little smile before bounding for the stairs. 

Buffy and Spike regarded each other warily. Him, observing silently; her, processing her sister’s actions and the inevitable reminder of last night, and thus the reason last night happened at all. Twisty, unhappy emotions started rising back up, and she nearly let it. One glance at Spike, though, reminded her of the problem at hand. “Alright, that’s it.” Buffy marched up to him and grabbed Spike by the shoulder, “Start ta—oh!”

Her hand went through his shoulder. Straight through, grasping at air. She tried again. Spike watched this with dismay.

“Oh bollocks,” Spike muttered.

“What? What is it?”

“Can’t you tell? I’m a sodding ghostie.” Spike snorted. “No thanks to this, I’m sure.” He plucked at an amulet hanging from neck.

“What is that? What did you do, Spike? Is that necklace what brought you here?”

Buffy blinked and he was gone.

Poof. Vanished. Buffy clutched at her hair in absolute frustration. She was losing her mind. That was it. Nothing else could explain this. “Maybe I’m still asleep,” Buffy reasoned, and rolled up her sleeve. “Come on, Buffy. Wakey wakey.” She started pinching various points of her forearm, waiting for something to change.

“Elizabeth?”

The voice called from the hallway. Buffy dropped her arm in shock as the brown-haired version of Spike’s past, William, stopped in front of her bedroom. He caught sight of her and immediately sighed in relief. “There you are. I had the maid fetch for a physician. He should be here shortly.”

Buffy stared at him. Then, walking up to him, she lifted a finger and poked him hard.

Her hand promptly went through his shoulder.

She ignored his frantic sputtering and furrowed her brow. She wasn’t asleep. She was just going crazy.

No. She’d know if she were actually crazy. It hadn’t reached that yet. _Okay, Buffy, think_. Where did this start? Right, in her mother’s bedroom, on the bed. She’d woken up to his face staring back at her, both of them on her mom’s bed. Which she was sleeping in because—

Oh.

Oh _god_.

It all came back in a rush of memory. All of it—and—and— all of it was real. The lamp, the wish, the red-eyed man, and his final words before she…

Buffy looked up at William staring at her with incredible concern.

Oh. Oh _no_. No no no _nononono_ —

“Oh god, no,” Buffy whispered, horrified. “Please, no.”

“Elizabeth?”

“You’re…my…you’re my…”

Her mind came to a screeching halt, then went completely blank. Some red, flashing part of her brain was ringing alarm bells and threw up a wall of defense around her thoughts. Because acknowledging those thoughts could only mean one thing.

Buffy whirled and screamed to the ceiling, “Hey! HEY! I know you’re listening, you genie from hell! _Get over here right now!_ ”

“Eli—please sit down. I shan’t call you that name anymore if it displeases you, just—darling—darling—you’re not making any sense shouting at the walls!”

The ghostly form of William fluttered nervously around her, trying to calm her down gently as she shouted at nothing, but Buffy would have none of it and ignored him. She continued, “Get back here you—you cheating little demon!”

“Again, not a demon. Are you trying to be hurtful?”

The red-eyed man was hovering cross-legged atop the headboard of the bed. William let out a distinctly unmanly yelp but immediately shoved himself between him and Buffy. An amused smile was playing on the red-eyed man’s lips as Buffy twisted around William and marched towards him.

“What. Is. This.” She jabbed her thumb at William.

“It’s funny. Your lips are moving but I’m not hearing ‘thank you’.” The red-eyed man tsked. “Why don’t you try again: O great Djinni, I thank you for your bountiful and generally worry-free wish fulfillment—”

“You call this worry-free? There are two of—” she glanced at William, whose eyes were now fixed on the red-eyed man while trying to move closer to her again. “— _him_ , following me around.”

“Wrong.”

Buffy balked. “I’m not wrong. There’s two ghosts of—of—” _Saying it is admitting it_ , _saying it is admitting it!_ her mind said in warning, but it couldn’t be helped. “Spike,” Buffy practically spat. “I didn’t ask for this. Undo this right now before I undo you.”

“Wrong, and wrong again.” The red-eyed man curled his lip in distaste. “I expected the slayer to be a lot cleverer than this. Ah well, another dimension, another pointless mortal…” He jumped off the headboard and disappeared, only to reappear behind her. William spun around first and put himself between the red-eyed man and Buffy again, this time clearly trying to protect her with all he had.

“Step back, demon!” William held his hand out. Buffy might have been more convinced at his threatening stance if not for the ridiculously fluffy shirt he had on. “I shall not allow harm to my—”

“Ugh, boring.” The red-eyed man flicked his finger and William disappeared. He turned to Buffy with a conspiratorial roll of his eyes. “Male bravado is universally intolerable, am I right?”

“Where did he go?” She couldn’t stop the note of worry in her voice. She may not have liked it, but this version—this William, was an innocent…ghost. Person.

“Wandering in temporal suspension somewhere,” the demon waved his hand carelessly. “Nothing to worry about. You’ll have them back in a minute. And I do mean one minute; I’m a busy djinni.”

Buffy stared at him for a long moment. “Listen. Last night…was a mistake. I was upset, half-delirious…I didn’t know the oil lamp by my mother’s bed was anything but decorative.”

“…Yes, and as we established last night, little mortal, your words were genuine. You were given a choice.”

“I didn’t actually say _yes_ ,” Buffy said heatedly. “You cheated.”

“Well that’s rather small-minded of you,” the djinni said coldly. “Do you honestly think the only ones who ask for wishes are those who can physically speak?”

Her sharp retort died in her throat, thinking on it. “Oh…well, I guess…”

“You guess. Intent, my dear, is everything. Above that, I asked _again_. Your answer was loud and clear as if you’d spoken it. It was my duty and obligation to fulfill your wish.”

She swallowed hard. “Like I said,” Buffy said unsteadily, “I think there‘s been a mistake.”

The annoyance in the djinni’s face cleared to one of quiet delight. “Oh.” His voice was slow, knowing. “Oh-ho. Not quite what you had in mind? This potential soulmate of yours?” Buffy stared back at him mutinously. “I wouldn’t sulk on it too much, little one. The cosmos hand-picked the two of you. I had nothing to do with it.”

“No,” Buffy ground out through her teeth. “He can’t be it. He can’t be.”

“And yet he is.” The djinni sighed. “I can see this will take you some time to process. God, you humans can perseverate in denial for years, can’t you? Your kind love self-inflicted torment.” He began to turn away, and Buffy made a desperate grab for his sleeve before he could leave.

“How are there two of him?” she blurted.

He paused, waiting until Buffy let go of his sleeve. His face was set, losing all his playful indulgence from before. “You’re asking the wrong questions. It isn’t how, it’s why?” Buffy stepped back, mouth parting. He advanced on her. “Why, why? If Spike is your soulmate, why didn’t he physically come to your door this morning? Why do you have two of the same man haunting you?”

Buffy shook her head, not knowing what to say. The djinni narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “You don’t even really want to know.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, a veritable deer stuck in headlights. Finally, with a slight tremor in her voice, she asked, “Why him?”

The djinni’s stony expression softened. “That you will have to answer for yourself, little mortal. I didn’t pick him for you.”

He turned away again, and this time she knew she could not stop him from leaving. Just as he began to fade, he glanced back at her one more time.  

“You know, I’m fucking old. I’ll admit, I chose to answer your call because I was bored and wanted to try on…something new. So believe me; I have seen your future, Buffy Summers, even of all your little friends. You might stand a higher chance against Glorificus this time around.” He flashed a pearly white grin. “I’m very interested in seeing how it ends.”

Before she could say a word, before she could exclaim ‘you know about Glory?’, he was gone. Without so much as a puff of smoke or a flash of magic, he simply disappeared.

Buffy stood in the empty room for a minute. Finally, she walked the three steps it took to sit on the edge of her bed. She began to think.

Soon enough a shadow fell over her, and Buffy looked up to find Spike peering down at her. The amulet was still hanging around his neck. He glanced at the spot where the djinni had stood a few moments ago.

“That the pillock then?” At Buffy’s look, he elaborated, “The one who’s brought me here?”

“You saw him?”

He nodded. They didn’t speak for a while. She chanced a glance at him, and was surprised at the tense set of his jaw and the blank look in his eyes. He stayed that way for some time. “You’re different.”

He looked back down at her, partly amused and partly something else. “That I am, Slayer. That I am.”

**-:-**

Buffy walked briskly, tugging her cardigan tightly around herself. Dawn, still not quite ready to go to school yet, was dropped off at the Magic Box. Buffy, desperate to escape the silent and solemn stare of Spike’s ghost, then left immediately for Giles’s house.

It was too much for her on her own. Too many things to consider and accept that her mind didn’t want to do. But as she neared Giles’s house she started running through how to tell him what happened.

“Hey Giles, nice weather today, huh? By the way last night I accidentally wished for a soulmate and the ghosts of Spike are now haunting me. How’re you?”

“Not sure how that’ll fare with old Rupes, pet,” said Spike’s ghost beside her, and Buffy startled.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed angrily, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I go where you go, seems like.” Spike peered up at the sky, squinting at the sun. “Right weird not to feel the burn of the sun on my skin. Then again…”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. “Keep quiet while I’m in there. I mean it.”

He nodded once and looked away. Buffy tried not to glance back at him. She didn’t know which version of Spike this was, but it was undeniably wiggy to see him so much more reserved than the boisterous, larger than life Spike she was accustomed to.

When they reached Giles’s front door, the ghost of Spike didn’t waste any time to waft right through. Glaring, Buffy pounded on the door until Giles opened it.

“Buffy?”

“Something’s happened.”

With a look of alarm, he let her inside. “What happened? Was it—?”

“No,” said Buffy firmly. “It wasn’t her. It’s something else. I think we should sit down. And…and I’d like this to stay between us.”

Giles waited anxiously as Buffy twisted her fingers in her lap. Finally, she looked up at him and said, “What do you know about genies?”

Giles blinked. “Genies?”

“Yeah. Do you have any books on them?”

“I—well, yes, I should have a volume or two on their…why do you ask?” His eyes widened. “Was it Dawn? Did she wish for—oh dear lord. She wished for Joyce, didn’t she. How on earth did she get her hands on a talisman?”

Buffy bit her lip. “No, no she didn’t wish for her. She tried resurrecting her, but no wishy-magic on her part.”

Giles looked relieved. “Oh, thank god.”

“It was me.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Giles said, “Y-you? Buffy…how? Why?”

“It—it was an accident,” Buffy said earnestly. “I was…I went into my mom’s room, and there was this oil lamp next to her bed…”

“Good lord.”

“And I made a wish. I didn’t mean it. Not—not really.”

Giles exhaled slowly. “Well if you didn’t mean it, there shouldn’t be a problem, right? Djinnis work with intent. The wish has to be real.”

Buffy winced and glanced away. “I…well, when I say I didn’t mean it…I mean it in the most liberal sense. Because there might have been a small…tiny…teensy part of me that meant it.”

Giles stared at her. “What did you wish for, Buffy?”

“Me,” Spike said loudly, finally appearing in the living room. He had a strange little smile like he found this all to be one cosmic, tortuous joke. Only Buffy heard him, and she sent a threatening glare at him before turning back to Giles.

“I—I asked for my soulmate, Giles. I was upset a-and I wanted…needed…” Her lower lip trembled, but she swallowed hard and forced the emotion down.

Giles stared at her with a very serious expression, startlingly serious. “Buffy. This is no small matter. Djinnis…they are notoriously mischievous. They make vengeance demons pale in comparison—they _mentored_ the very first vengeance demons, for god’s sake. And you’re telling me you struck a deal with one of the most dangerous mythical beings in the universe?”

Buffy wanted to melt into the sofa she sat on. She glanced at Spike, who now sported his trademark smirk, and looked away. “I didn’t mean to,” she said weakly.

“Who is it, then?”

Buffy braced herself. “That’s the tricky part. Sometimes it’s the…the ghost of Spike, from a time I’m not sure of…and sometimes it’s his human form, William.”

Giles stared. Then he took off his glasses and cleaned it rapidly with a white cloth. She waited for a scolding, his outrage, the denial. None of them came. Instead, he looked at Buffy and replied, “Well. It could have been worse.”

From the other end of the room where Spike’s ghost had now taken residence on Giles’s armchair, Spike let out a loud snort. Buffy glared at him again, which he patently ignored.

“Good lord, is he here now?”

“Yes—Giles, how could this have been worse? I have the ghosts of Christmas _asshole_ following me around wherever I go now! This means that my…my…” She clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to say it out loud.

She started when a gentle hand settled on her shoulder. “Buffy, this might seem very…unfavorable, but soulmates are never set in stone. They are paths you can take in your life. It doesn’t mean you _must_ take them. There is no compulsion. Most never unite with a soulmate—many don’t believe in such a concept. This is not the end, just because your intended is Spike.”

Buffy licked her dry lips. “You’re taking this a lot better than I expected.”

He let out a short chuckle. “Well, when you announced you’d made a deal with a djinni, I had expected something more along the lines of battle, resurrection. Unnatural. This isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been—if your price was too high, the djinni would have asked for something just as high in return.” A curious frown appeared on his face. “What exactly did he ask for in return?”

“Um…two pints of my blood and an hour of my time.”

His frown deepened. “That…hmm.”

“Is that bad?”

Giles glanced up at her. “Blood is powerful. Let alone Slayer blood. I worry about what a djinni would do with this.” At Buffy’s stricken look, Giles cleared his throat and smiled a little. “Not to worry, Buffy. We will look through my books on the Djinn realm and sort this out the best we can. Not all is lost.”

Giles’s assurances quelled the sickening churn in her stomach that she’d been feeling since she saw the djinni last night. Still, questions persisted in her head. “So what does this mean? What do I do? Do I just ignore it and wait for it to go away?” She flickered her gaze at Spike and noticed he was carefully not meeting her eyes anymore.

“Well,” Giles started, “I suppose it entirely depends on your wish. What were the exact words you used when you made it?”

Buffy frowned, furrowing her brows. “I don’t remember the exact sentence...but it was something like wishing my soulmate could be here, to help me through with what’s going on. Forever.”

“Forever?” Giles repeated.

“Not—not _forever_ , forever! Like, a soulmate who’d never leave. Oh…” Buffy dropped her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do, Giles. What with Glory—”

“What about Glory?” Spike’s ghost suddenly sat up. Buffy saw the alarm in his eyes and frowned. “What year is this?” he demanded.

“Why?” Buffy asked suspiciously. Giles glanced between her and the seemingly empty armchair.

“What is he saying?” Giles asked.

“He’s asking what year it is. Why does it matter, Spike? Where are you from?”

“What bloody year is it, Slayer?” Spike growled.

She hesitated for a moment, before answering, “March 2001.”

His eyes rounded. “Fuck. Fucking _hell_.” He looked up at the ceiling accusingly and shot off the armchair. “Is this a sodding joke? Why would you do this to me? Why couldn’t you let me burn!”

Buffy sat up, alarmed at the despair and rage in his voice. She’d seen multitudes of Spike—angry, desperate, famished, bloodlusty. She’d never seen him this way before. Not like this. It was almost as if…

Buffy stood up and carefully approached him. “Spike? What year is it where you’re from?”

He stopped, harsh breaths wracking his body. Blue eyes fixed on hers, he opened his mouth. And just as he began to speak, she watched the transformation right before her eyes—the blond hair becoming brown, the leather duster becoming a tailored coat.

William stared back at her, and at her sight he immediately beamed. “Oh, I am so happy to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you so much to all of you out there reading this! I did not expect the overwhelming love and support that I got just from the first chapter. You guys? Rock. Y'all are the best.
> 
> As for this chapter, they say Denial is the first step to a good slowburn Spuffy...that's how it goes, right? ;) 
> 
> Thank you again for being such an awesome bunch of folks. I hope you liked this one xx Chapter is unbeta'd so please forgive any mistakes, they will be fixed as soon as I catch them xxx


	3. Heart and Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd, but only because I am a butt who just had a week of food poisoning and wanted some early lovin' from you guys before my poor beta could get her hands on it. Pinky promise I won't do this again :P Any and all things will be fixed very soon! x
> 
> Also, food poisoning sucks, 0/10 would not recommend.

**Chapter 3:** Heart and Soul

-:-

They were sitting side-by-side on Giles’s couch. He’d gone off to the next room in pursuit of research on the djinn realm, promising to be back in a minute. Buffy knew better. Her watcher would be gone for an hour at an optimistic minimum, leaving Buffy alone with the gentle soul of William the not-so-Bloody.

She was glad. It gave her time to let it all sink in. Talking with Giles had rid Buffy of her initial and violent panic. Not all was lost; not yet. Freakout Buffy had left the building, and firmly in its place was Observant Buffy. With Giles’s assurance that soulmates were a chosen path, not a certainty, Buffy could now look upon her predicament with more clarity. There was also a small, niggling part that wanted to know more. Know why the cosmos thought that Spike, of all people (or lack thereof), was destined to be hers.

Buffy made up her mind. If it really was meant to be, why not figure out what ‘it’ actually was?

Buffy licked her lips, hands folded in her lap, and feeling William’s watchful stare. What did one say to their ghostly soulmate as a conversation starter? ‘How’s cholera doing in the homeland?’

Thankfully, William spared her the first nicety. “You look well today, Eliz…” he stopped himself short, glancing up at her anxiously.

“It’s okay.” Buffy attempted a smile.

“You didn’t enjoy the name Elizabeth yesterday,” said William with a slight shake of his head. “The last thing I want to do is further distress you.”

Buffy opened her mouth, then paused with a curious frown. “Yesterday? The thing that happened two hours ago feels like yesterday?”

William looked at her in that strange way again, cautious and uncertain, as if any moment he’d lose her again. Buffy glanced down at his attire, now a crisp nineteenth century gentleman’s suit, and pursed her lips. “You do have a change of wardrobe…”

“Eliza—Buffy,” William briefly squeezed his eyes shut at his mistake. “Please tell me what I can do to help.”

From down the hall she could hear Giles puttering about, dropping book after book and adding a muffled curse in between. A faraway look came about Buffy, a sudden clarity at what had to be done. It wasn’t her Slayer authority taking over, but something close. Something that would help give her answers to what her wish had given her.

“William.” She turned to face him fully, giving him her full attention. William’s eyes flickered down at her when she shifted and he mirrored her, twisting to face her better. Buffy took the chance to look at him,  _really_ look at what was in front of her.

His demeanor was unerringly sweet, pupils wide with attention and an openness she didn’t think she’d ever seen on Spike. Spike had always been guarded with an armor of sharp words and leering stares; William was carefully worded and had little to guard his heart with. She only needed one glance to see it.

William was what Spike made sure never to be: breakable.

“This is going to sound strange,” Buffy started slowly. “But just trust me here. Can you do that?”

His eyes widened. “Of course. Whatever it is, let me help you.”

“What would really help me is if you…answered some questions.” At William’s encouraging nod, Buffy took in a deep breath. “What do you know about me?”

“…I’m not sure I follow.”

“It’s not a trick, I promise. Tell me everything you know about me. Please?”

A small, hesitant little smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Well,” he began, “your name is Elizabeth Summers. We met a year ago at a society ball. You were in the back garden, retching.”

“I was  _what?_ ”

His smile widened at her dismay. “Yes. I’d just made an arse of myself in front of my colleagues, in front of Cecily Addams, but instead of leaving I mistakenly went to the back garden’s entrance. There I found you, head shoved in a potted plant—”

“Oh my god…”

“—and I handed you the scrap of paper I’d written poetry on to wipe your mouth.” He paused. “You never actually did use it.”

“I didn’t?”

“No. You were affronted that I’d…” he glanced away, briefly overcome with the shyness she was now familiarizing herself with as uniquely William’s. At her unwavering and open gaze, he cleared his throat. “That I’d offered my poetry as a handkerchief. You…you said you’d done quite enough in soiling beautiful things for one evening.”

At Buffy’s stunned look, William’s eyes shone with untempered adoration. “You were a miracle. I’d just had my dignity shredded and humiliated at a societal ball, and not thirty seconds later God led me to you.”

Buffy’s stomach churned uneasily. She knew the story from Spike’s perspective hadn’t gone this way. He’d shortly become a vampire after this ball, the fateful night he bumped into Drusilla. This William never met Drusilla—he’d met Buffy instead.

“Why…” Buffy cleared her throat at the hoarseness of her voice. “Why was I tossing cookies anyway?” He gave an adorably confused frown. Right. Twenty-first century lingo and a nineteenth century ghost were nonmixy. “You know. Vomiting?”

His gentle look turned slightly mischievous. “Ah yes. You, I’m afraid, are a terrible lightweight.”

Buffy almost laughed. Of course.  _Of course_  she wouldn’t be able to hold her liquor even in a fake reality. The attention to detail for whoever made all this up should be given a gold star.

William was now back to regarding her warily again. Buffy gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Thanks for telling me.”

“W-would you like to hear more?”

“Yes! So. Elizabeth Summers, puking in a pot in the back garden, refusing your scrap of paper. How did that end up to where you— _we_ —are now?”

He glanced down at his lap and lightly shrugged one shoulder, fidgeting with his clasped hands. “You wouldn’t let me leave.”

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“I was a bit of a mess myself, you see. I—do you really not remember any of this?” He implored, a little note of desperation in his voice.

“We’ll get to that. Keep going, please?”

William sighed. “I started to leave and you asked for a real handkerchief. I obliged. When I tried to leave…I was in a right state as it was, Elizabeth, deeply unhappy. We could still hear laughter from inside…and you were not one to be denied my company once you realized they were laughing at me.” He added, in an afterthought, “You were quite forceful.”

Buffy snorted. “Yeah, sounds like drunk-me. Did I threaten you too?”

William smiled sheepishly. “Not to me, no, but you were not as generous to the guests inside the house. You had half a mind to storm inside and give them all a piece of…said mind.”

“And did I?”

“You would have, had you the ability to walk in a straight line.”

Buffy snorted. “Right.”

“Right.” William smiled tenderly, and he leaned just a bit closer to her. “Is this helping, my dear? Are you remembering?” He glanced away again before looking back into her eyes, his face betraying the smallest thrum of…excitement? Hope? “Is this…one of your games again?”

Buffy paused, staring at him. She didn’t know what kind of relationship his version of Buffy had with William, but just that one line shot through her. She was now confused and filled with even more burning questions. Just what did Elizabeth Summers have with him? They were probably engaged, if William’s doting said anything, and…and….A blush started to bloom on her cheeks. William caught sight of it and his gaze darkened. “It is, isn’t it.”

Buffy glanced down the hall, hoping Giles would turn up just in the nick of time. She didn’t respond to his question. Instead she turned to him, hazel eyes blown wide. “Do you love me?”

William’s mouth parted, and the look he gave her made her heart do a strange flip in her chest. “You know I do. I—I love you, Elizabeth. With all my beating heart.” He pressed his hand over his chest where his heart lay underneath. “It is young, but it knows how to love.”

His other hand reached out to brush against hers. When it transparently slid right through, like she knew it would, she was surprised at the tiniest echo of electricity that passed through where their fingers touched.

William frowned. “What…” He tried again. He looked at her, panic lighting his eyes. At her unwavering gaze, slow understanding dawned in him.

“Earlier…your hand went through my shoulder.” He shook his head, stricken. “And there was a man…a man with red eyes.”

Buffy was struck speechless, not knowing what to say to him. Whatever reality bubble he’d been living in had now popped. Seeing the physical manifestation of their inability to touch had somehow shattered his perception of his reality—he now gawked at her, eyeing her cardigan and jeans with horror. “Good lord, what are you wearing? Wha—where are we?” William looked at Buffy, distressed and moving away from her. “What’s happening?”

With a face wrought with shock and devastation, William disappeared.

“Guess that’s the end of that,” Buffy muttered to herself. She stared at the spot William had been sitting on the sofa, reflecting on what he’d said before he tried holding her hand. A shiver went through her, along with an empty sense of dread.

“I’ve found two volumes related to the Djinn dimension,” Giles said mildly, his nose stuck in a book he held open as he reentered the living room. “So far I haven’t—oh. Is something wrong?”

Buffy shrugged. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

Giles blinked, then made to sit beside her. He stopped before he so much as bent down, looking around awkwardly. “Erm, I don’t know where he’s sitting, but…”

“He’s not here.”

“Oh? Oh!” Giles relaxed down into the cushion next to Buffy. “Did he wander off?”

“Nope. He just disappeared.”

Giles frowned. “I thought Spike—the, ah, ghost form of Spike—said he went where you went?”

She shrugged. “Guess he lied.”

Giles looked dubious at this. “Does he disappear often like that?”

Buffy thought about it for a moment. “He does…except he never actually leaves? He changes form but doesn’t go away. I don’t know Giles, maybe he’s just hiding in the bathroom. God knows we both have reasons to not want to be near each other right now.”

“Buffy, what happened while I was gone?”

A pang went through her chest. “We just talked,” Buffy said quietly. “He…this ghost version of William has a different reality imbedded in his brain about the two of us, something that makes sense to him on how we could be together.” Buffy’s eyes widened. “How we could’ve been together…”

Was that it? Was William a manifestation of what she could’ve had with him, had they met when he was human? This soft, sweet, teasing William, utterly in love with her. No death by Drusilla, no resurrection, no hundred and twenty odd years of blood and torment. No William seeking a new existence at the tail end of the most devastating humiliation of his life. All it would have taken was one moment, exactly one with her—and not even a charming one. One moment, and he would have been hers.

A part of Buffy violently rejected this idea. So, what, she would’ve been his redemption? His meaning of life? Meeting his true love would’ve cured him of his fragile temperament that’d been easily shattered by his peers, and given him confidence? Buffy couldn’t fathom the idea of becoming someone’s purpose, in the respect that its opposite meant that because she  _hadn’t_ been there, William had transformed into the remorseless murderer he was now. She abjectly refused to have that responsibility on her—if William had any sense, he could have easily chosen not to let Drusilla turn him. He should have chosen right.

The words of love William had so achingly shared with her now felt sour in her mouth. None of this was actually real. She had to remember that.

“Buffy? What did he tell you?”

Buffy licked her lips. She almost told him, but the words wouldn’t come. They weren’t real, but they felt…private, all the same. Instead, she found herself saying, “Nothing important.”

**-:-**

An hour later, they didn’t make so much as an inch of progress.

“Bloody Assyrian scribes,” Giles cursed under his breath, flipping rapidly through his musty textbook. “I knew I should have studied Ancient Arabic as an elective language during my time at the Watcher’s Headquarters.”

“I thought all your books had the fun translatey bits already sorted out into English?” Buffy said unhelpfully as she peered over his shoulder at the page.

“Yes, well, most Slayer demonology rarely delves into Middle Eastern lore…let alone human lore. Though I suppose all lore is human lore, if we have books to tell the tale.”

“Uh huh. You realize none of that means anything to me, right?”

Giles sighed and took off his glasses. “Tell me again what the djinni discussed with you in the two times you’ve interacted. As specifically as you can.”

“Mostly he was irritating,” Buffy shrugged lightly, picking at a thread on edge of the sofa cushion. “Made fun of mortals.”

“As is expected.”

“He gets real touchy if you call him a demon. I mean, the dude has red eyes, Giles. I don’t know what he expects.”

“To be fair, he isn’t actually a demon.”

Buffy hiked up her brows.

“It’s true,” said Giles testily. “I-if the folklore holds true, the djinni race was created alongside the mortal race. They’re creatures of fire as we are of flesh.”

“So what, you’re saying they’re fiery versions of us? He didn’t like  _people_  people either, Giles.”

“Well, no. But ‘not human’ doesn’t automatically mean demon, Buffy. I expected you to know better than that.”

Silently chastened, Buffy set her mouth in a grim line. “Alright. Not demon. This not-demon can pop in and out of our world, send things into other dimensions, and is supernaturally enhanced. You have to admit, letting that much unlimited power roam around our world is something we can’t risk. Glory is bad enough. Ooh, ooh! Glory!”

“What, what?”

“He knows Glory! He called her Glorificus, and…” Buffy stared off past Giles’s shoulder, her mind flipping through the words he had departed with. “He said this time around, we might have a better chance.” Buffy looked at Giles worriedly. “What does that mean?”

“This time around? You think he’s seen your future?”

“He picked out my soulmate, Giles. How much do you wanna bet he has access to my future?” Buffy worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “It was almost like…he was implying that this time around, with this ghost-thing I have going on, we have a better shot at defeating Glory.”

“Do you suspect he’s working with her?” said Giles, anxious.

Buffy shook her head. “No. It—it seemed like he knew of her, but wasn’t the shoulder-rubby type of pal with her, you know? He’s supposed to be an ancient interdimensional being, right? A non-demony thing? It isn’t in the realm of impossibility that he’d run into a hellgod, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps so.” Giles looked at Buffy warily. “This is troubling, Buffy. We may have something far more serious at hand.”

**-:-**

Dawn was nibbling on a slice of pizza when Buffy and Giles entered the Magic Box. She and Buffy exchanged awkward, but genuine, smiles when their eyes met across the room. Anya paid no heed to their arrival as she ushered two customers to the far end of the room, pointing out several shrunken heads.

“I’ll see if the reference section has anything useful,” said Giles. Buffy started when she realized he was waiting for her, expectantly.

“Aaand I will, uh, look in the basement. See if there’s any demon books down there about djinnis that never got put on the shelves. In English. Or French! I know a little bit of French.”

Giles nodded briefly and strode over to the row of bookshelves on the second floor. Dawn sidled next to Buffy, taking a savage bite from the last bit of crust of her pizza.

“Full researchy mode again?” she asked lightly.

Buffy nodded. Dawn’s smile became forced as she fiddled with the bit of crust. “Guess Big Bads don’t do time outs when we really need them, huh?”

Buffy took in her meaning and stopped eyeing the stairs. Gently, Buffy placed a hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “Not  _that_  Big Bad,” she said softly. “Just your run of the mill research.” At Dawn’s dubious look, Buffy peered at her seriously. “Seriously. Nothing for you to worry about. Or me, if I think about it.”

“Shouldn’t lie to the niblet like that.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to startle in surprise, or to whirl around. Buffy smiled tightly at Dawn, gave a gentle pat on her shoulder, and headed towards the stairs. She could feel him following her, like thin fragments of static brushing against her back.

“Look who decided to come back,” Buffy muttered quietly once they were out of earshot.

“Missed me then, did you?”

She could hear the smirk in his words. Buffy finally turned to face him, catching sight of ruffled blond hair and an amulet hanging around his neck. Her ire slowly melted away when she saw he looked just as miserable as he did the last time she saw him.

“I thought you said you had to follow where I went at all times?”

Spike raised a brow. “Am here, aren’t I?”

“You’ve been gone for hours.”

“And we’re back to ‘missed me’.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “When pigs fly.”

Spike huffed a laugh. “Then throw me across the bloody room.”

“Believe me, I would if I could.”

“That’s right—still a ghostie here. And  _your_ ghostie, from the looks of it.” Buffy looked away. Spike clucked his tongue as he idly perused the basement. “Buffy Summers asks for her soulmate to a sodding genie, and here is ole Spikey. Mockery of the universe, this is. The Powers hate the both of us something cruel, Slayer,” Spike looked at her, an emptiness in his stare. “Only I think they hate me just a little bit more.”

She watched him as he read labels of bottles and peered through glass vials, idly picking without actually, physically touching a thing. This Spike was so different,  _so_  different from the Spike she knew. More than that, he was a stark contrast to the ghost of William she spoke with a few hours ago. This Spike was raw, angry, and hurting. He was subdued in more ways than one, and none of them made any sense to her.

“When are you from, Spike?” She couldn’t help but ask.

“Hmm. Don’t see how that will help you sleep better at night, Slayer. Don’t ask.”

“I’m not asking it to feel better. Tell me.”

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

Buffy scowled. “That’s not a good reason!”

“Who said it had to be good?”

“You—just tell me!”

Spike looked at her stubbornly. “I don’t want to.”

“You’re a coward.”

Spike laughed softly, glancing back up at a shelf. “Not what you called me last time.”

Buffy stepped closer to him, glaring. “Three hours ago you asked me what year it was. You completely freaked when I mentioned Glory.” Spike’s jaw ticked. “So you’re the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, I’d guess. You know enough to be afraid. It’s probably been  _long_  enough for you to need to know the year. Stop me when I’m wrong.”

His jaw ticked, glaring at her silently.

“Tell me, Spike.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I don’t give a damn what you want, Spike.”

“Big surprise there.”

“I need to know.” Her voice was hard, losing her patience.

“No. No you don’t need to know. What’s it gonna do, Slayer? Can’t change a sodding thing. Not like this,” he gestured at himself, “and not with the spell underway. I could tell you a hundred times about Ben and Glory. You won’t understand yet.”

Buffy frowned, curious. “What does Ben have to do with Glory?”

Spike chuckled mirthlessly, glancing up at the ceiling. “You see? Won’t do a damned thing.”

At her silent, unrelenting stare, Spike closed his eyes. “2003.”

He was watching her, waiting for a reaction. Buffy licked her lips, exhaling quietly through her mouth. “That…okay. Okay.”

He quirked a brow at that. “Did it help?”

“I told you,” Buffy said quietly. “It has nothing to do with me.”

This was going terribly. Buffy wanted answers; lots of them. This Spike was older, knew more, lived longer. She might even better understand from this Spike why the universe picked them together. He didn’t seem to feel the same. Every word out of his mouth was sardonic, veiled with a thin veneer of hopeless despair. In fact, the thought of the two of them as soulmate-worthy seemed to send him into endless bitter disappointment.

“Well?”

Buffy glanced up. Spike was now leaning against a shelf, arms folded over his chest.

“Well, what?”

“In’t this the part where you ask about your future? The future I lived?”

She raised a brow, matching his stance by crossing her arms under her chest. “Somehow I think you wouldn’t answer them anyway.”

A ghost of a smile quirked his mouth. “Smart bird. Ask us a question.”

“What, feeling generous now?”

“I’m bored and dead, so yeah, I am.”

She had to give him that. “Did we defeat Glory in your time?”

The humor sparking in Spike’s eyes faded. He nodded, once.

She tried not to show her immediately relief. “How?”

Spike stared at her. She tried again.

“Do you know any weakness of hers? Does she get any of us?”

He continued to stare.

“What’s the point of offering answers when you won’t say them!” Buffy exploded.

“I can’t answer them,” said Spike evenly.

“Of course you won’t,” Buffy bitterly muttered.

“Not won’t.  _Can’t_. I can’t get the words out when I try. Think I don’t want to?” He pushed off of the shelf and drew closer to her. “Think I want to sit here pretty and transparent-like, watching you lot toil away when I know I have the means to help?”

Buffy frowned, thinking over his choice of words. “What’re you saying? You physically can’t get out the words when you try to talk?”

“’M sayin’ that the digs your wanker of a genie gave me seems to have a clause in telling you anything useful. Can’t give you tips, can’t ease your battle plan in killing Glory.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “I’m not here for that reason.”

The unspoken words hung in the air between them. He wasn’t here to help her war, he was here as her soulmate. He could talk, he could support, he could snark and disappear into thin air, but he couldn’t influence her path.

With a quiet sigh, Buffy shrugged. “Alright.”

Spike stilled, his eyes fixing on her with the strangest look.

“What?” Buffy asked.

“Just ‘alright’?”

“Yeah…?”

Spike stared again.

“What, you thought by showing up that I’d put all my eggs in your basket, mister future guy?” Buffy shook her head. “It’d be nice if you could help, but I wasn’t banking on it, Spike. It just means I keep going like I already was. This doesn’t change anything.”

Whatever it was she said, it slowly transformed the rigid tension in his body into a lax, curious Spike. His head was tilting and the harsh blankness in his eyes grew soft. Almost wondrous.

He faded away with the barest hint of a smile.

**-:-**

She really wanted to stake something.

Why was it when she actually had the slayer itch, there was nowhere to scratch it? Three cemeteries and the most action she’d seen was scaring two teenagers off and telling them to fool around somewhere else. Which brought her to: why the  _hell_  were the cemeteries and mausoleums of Sunnydale the number one hook up spots?

Buffy tucked the stake in her belt and sat down on the large, rectangular gravestone of  _Edith F. Warfeld, 1902-1949._ Her feet gently tapped against the bottom of the gravestone as she stared up at the stars. Giles hadn’t found anything too useful in the Magic Box, but he  _had_  found a reasonable source to transcribe the books he already owned. Buffy had poked around in the basement, reflecting on her conversations both with William and with Spike and how differently they’d went. How different those two really were.

Buffy’s mind wandered back to when William told her how they had met. A smile began unwittingly forming on her lips. It helped that she hadn’t actually lived that particularly mortifying memory, else she might’ve been as stuttery and pink about it as William had been.

“’S good to see you smiling, Slayer.”

Spike was a few feet in front of her. Shouldn’t it have been William this time? Buffy didn’t know how the switches worked. She found she didn’t really care.

“Is it, really?”

Spike shrugged, and Buffy missed his wary glance. “Better than the ugly mug of demon blood and vamp dust you’re usually sportin’.”

“Golly, you really know how to sweet talk a girl,” Buffy said dryly.

She saw out of her periphery Spike moving closer, hesitantly, until he was leaning against the headstone with her. “Didn’t know you wanted sweet-talking from yours truly. I’ll be sure to fix that.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and pushed off from the headstone. After a beat, when she didn’t move away, Spike pushed off the headstone too. They fell into an idle, slow little walk as Buffy scoped out any potential vamps lurking tonight.

After a few minutes of silence, Spike cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to drop by, actually. Know I’m not wanted,” Spike said quickly. “Came by last night. Meant to…” he shook his head and bent down, plucking at something. “Doesn’t matter. Just wanted to pay my respects.”

Buffy furrowed her brows. “For?”

Spike blinked. His face hardened in a grim expression. “I know I’m a monster, Slayer, but this wasn’t one of those things. Never was, not even in the beginning.” At her confused look he resumed walking, and Buffy inevitably followed after him. She didn’t pay much attention to what he was doing with his hands as they walked, avoiding looking at him. Looking at him invariably led to Buffy wondering just what the hell happened in the future to have Spike’s eyes look so haunted. Best to avoid his gaze altogether, especially after such a jarring day.

“Just wanted to send my condolences. Your mum was a good mum. Don’t have any humans I tolerate much, let alone like. She was a good friend a living corpse could ever have.”

He finally stopped in front of her. He gave a sheepish look before holding out the bundle of things he’d kept bending down to pick off while they’d been walking. Clutched tightly in his hand was a small bouquet of flowers, freshly picked, arranged prettily in off-whites and pale yellows, with one red rose tucked in the middle. 

Her jaw dropped. He was holding flowers. Holding, having just picked them up from the grass and—and other graves.

“You’re really here?” she blurted.

Why hadn’t she noticed? God, she was so off her game, how could she not tell it was actual, physical, undead Spike walking alongside her? He’d been picking flowers the whole time, flowers for  _her_. She could feel the tinglies now on the back of her neck, a specific zing that she associated only for Spike. He wasn’t wearing the amulet, he didn’t have the heavy, weary look in his eyes that the ghostly Spike did.

Buffy stared at the flowers again. Without a second thought, she took them from Spike’s hand and held them closely to her nose, inhaling deeply. She could feel him watching her. A twitchy, anticipatory energy crackled around him.  _There_ he was. Unmistakably alive Spike. She tried not thinking on why that thought alone gave her a sense of relief.

Buffy looked up at him. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Spike was holding his breath. “Thank you,” Buffy said quietly, as genuinely as she could.

Spike’s throat bobbed, and he nodded a little. “You’re welcome.”

They stood silently for a moment, an awkwardness settling between them. Spike cleared his throat. “Right then, won’t get in your hair. I’m off.”

The words came out before she could stop them.

“Dawn resurrected Mom.”

Spike’s eyes went wide. Comically wide. She had to hold in a laugh. It was a hysterical one anyway, and if she let that one loose she’d start crying.

“It worked?”

Buffy stared at him. “You knew.” Spike stared back, straight in her eyes and unwavering. Realization set in. “You helped.”

A roar of emotions swelled inside her. She wanted to strike him across the face, open-palmed and stinging. The words were in there in her head, ready to throw them at him. She knew someone had to have helped Dawn. She  _knew_. With the way last night had gone, though, she never gave it a second thought on how Dawn had done it.

“I never saw her,” said Buffy, finally. She looked up to see Spike frowning in confusion. “Dawn ended the spell before anything could happen.” Buffy’s expression hardened. “Don’t you ever encourage her like that again.”

“Wasn’t like that,” Spike muttered and glanced down.

“I don’t care. God, Spike, you’re the one always warning us against using magic and its consequences. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought two grieving girls would have their mum back, alright?” Anger lit Spike’s bright, blue eyes. “Didn’t think much farther than that. Stupid, I know it was. Just—just couldn’t stand it. Little Bit was in pain. Couldn’t stand it.”

“That’s life,” Buffy snapped angrily. “We live, we die, we grieve! You have no idea—no idea—what you helped bring. What I almost—almost thought I had. Almost had her again.” Buffy swallowed thickly, feeling the prickly burn of tears, and looked away from him.

“I’m sorry,” came his soft reply.

Buffy shook her head, forcing her unshed tears back and swallowing the lump in her throat. “You have no idea,” she said mutely. “No idea what it’s like when you mom could just be back like that. To have that hope that…that she might live. And to have that ripped away before you even got a chance.”

She was met with silence. Buffy looked back at Spike only to find him regarding her warily.

“What?”

”I do.”

”Do what?”

“I do have an idea.”

Buffy furrowed her brows. “You…how?”

Spike shifted his gaze away, his shoulder twitching in a slight shrug. “You don’t want to know, Slayer. I’ve overstayed my welcome here.”

He tried to leave. Not fade away, not shift into someone else. It’d only been a day and already she was used to something else—someone else.

And she didn’t want him to leave.  _Answers,_  Buffy reminded herself.  _I want answers._

Without really thinking of what she was doing, Buffy’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm by the elbow. He stopped, turning his torso sideways to look at her in shock. His eyes flickered to where she held him. Then went back to her.

“Tell me.” Please.

He turned to face her, then, and she let her grip on his elbow shift with him.

He looked at her for long moment before responding. “You’re grieving.” Spike’s voice was low, soft. “And I fucked up. I’ll let you in on this, just this once.” Slowly, Buffy released him. Spike fixed her with a firm look. “When vampires are turned, first thing they do is kill their family and friends. It’s easiest, you see. It’s the first thing the demon remembers, so’s an easier target.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that.”

“I was no different. I killed all the knobs that tormented me, the people I called friends when I was human. But not before I went to my mother.”

A thrill of fear coursed through her. Spike caught it, and began smiling. It was empty and unsettling.

She’d never seen Spike like this. Direct, unwavering, and not stopping. He’d started now and he wouldn’t stop until the tale was finished. “You killed her,” Buffy said, disbelief and disgust stilting the breath in her voice.

Spike pursed his lips and started digging in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. “She was the first person I went to after Drusilla turned me. I was free, excited, and hungry for life in a way I never imagined as a mortal. I wanted to pillage villages and flood whole cities with blood—and I wanted my mother by my side.”

Buffy’s eyes widened as he lit up a cigarette. Spike went on. “Dru looked at me like I was mad. Thinkin’ on it now, having a madwoman look at you like you’re mad was fucking something else.” He blew out a puff of smoke. “But I wouldn’t be discouraged, and I took Dru with me to my home. Mum was sick, you see. Nowadays you can get a shot full of chemicals and you’ll never worry for tuberculosis, but in those days you suffered for years before kickin’ the miserable can. And my mum was miserable.” Spike’s eyes blazed with emotion. “Dying, aching, suffering, and miserable. I spent years taking care of her. She loved me, and I loved her so much.”

Buffy had to look away. She had an idea of where this story was going and she wished she hadn’t pressed Spike into telling her. A sick, rolling sensation filled her gut as Spike continued.

“I’d just been reborn with all this strength, this power. Didn’t need my reading glasses anymore. Didn’t want for  _anything_ anymore, save some blood and a healthy libido. Here was a cure that modern science hadn’t cracked, and I desperately wanted to save my mother. So I sank my fledgling fangs into her, turned her, and waited.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Buffy whispered.

“I was right by her side when she rose.” Spike ignored her. “Overflowing with joy, I was. Dru knew, though. She picked me because I was strong inside; she saw something in me no one else did. She turned me and I was still me. I turned my mother, and the demon was all that was left.” Spike’s drawn expression cracked, and he finally looked away from Buffy. “She wasn’t my mum anymore. It was pure demon in my mother’s body. It said every bit of awful and twisted thing, every vile thought it could think of. It wasn’t my mother. Should’ve known she was too weak to stay once she’d turned. Was all my fault.”

“What…what did…?”

“I killed her.”

Buffy’s heart pounded. She knew Spike’s life was a ledger of burning red, but hearing every grim detail was twisting achingly at her insides.

“Not five minutes after she’d risen, I set her to dust. It broke my heart. It made me grow up faster as a fledge. I loved her, I tried to bring her back, and I regret it every day.” He laughed under his breath. “I should never’ve helped the Bit bring your mum back. Thought maybe this time would be different.”

“You loved your mother,” Buffy said quietly.

“I did.”

“Even as a vampire.”

Spike said nothing. “What…” Buffy shook her head in dismay. “I don’t understand.”

Spike regarded her carefully. “No, I don’t think you do. Your books and your Watchers can say what they want, love, but we feel everything. At my most violent, my most dangerous, I still loved my mother. Demon loved her too.” He shook his head at her impatiently. “You won’t deny that I get angry, frustrated, excited, infatuated, upset, depressed, but you draw the line at love.”

“Love is pure,” Buffy found herself saying, even if she was starting to doubt herself. “You love with your soul.”

“I love with all my unbeating heart.” Spike clutched a hand to the middle of his chest, directly where his dead heart lay underneath. “It doesn’t work anymore, but it’s still there. It remembers what it is to love. Still does.”

She’d seen this before from him—the gesture, the words, the passion in his tone—they were almost identical.

Identical to William.

Buffy slowly backed away. Spike watched her intently, as if willing her to see him as he was with sheer force of will.

No.  _No_.

Without looking back, Buffy turned away and ran.


	4. Glory, Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this update is terribly late. I'm so sorry! My muse jumped to several different ends, and this poor fic got a little bit neglected. But I'm back and with a very character-plotty update! 
> 
> Thank you oodles and oodles to OffYourBird for taking this humble lump of coal and transforming it into a gleaming diamond. She's a rockstar beta and grammar warrior. If you spot an error it is entirely mine as tinkered here and there after editing.

**Chapter Four:** Glory, Glory

**-:-**

Alf peered down from the top of the church, a rusted iron bell to his back and the whole of Sunnydale below him. He exhaled a puff of smoke from his fiery lungs and sat deeply in thought.

His summons was coming along nicely, if he said so himself. A little bit of drama, some heartache, and the loveliest shade of denial from Sunnydale’s slayer made a delightful concoction for the best love story he’d be responsible for.

Alf grimaced distastefully.  “Ew, I actually thought that.” A century ago he’d have pelted hot coals at any of his colleagues who took on missions like this. Oh, how far the mighty Djinn had fallen…

Alf jumped down from the church bell and landed gently on his feet. There was still much he wanted to see in this sixteen-billionth dimension. In his human guise it would be no problem, constraining though it was. Having human flesh wrapped all around him where there should’ve been flames and smoke… He shuddered and continued down the main street. Best he didn’t think about it.

Nighttime Sunnydale was depressingly dull. Half city and half suburb, the hellmouth had all the humans hidden away in their homes by sundown. The few that braved the night—a notably younger crowd—typically became convenient snack food for the demon underground. Alf hadn’t been to many hellmouths in the past, but seeing this one in action made it certain he hadn’t missed all that much. Typical, all so typical...what was it Merry had said? To try on something new? So far the human world was as depressingly bleak as his own, with the exception of having more sunlight and less fire and brimstone. Alf sighed, hoping the night would bring something more intriguing.

As Alf walked down the street he watched several disguised demons recoil from him. Many stared. Alf sighed. “Will _no one_ try to threaten me?” He was in a human body suit after all. Night was for mischief! For fighting! Why was everyone avoiding him? Confused by his contradictory nature, he suspected. Not human, not demon, but something else. Something too powerful for them to mess with.

It was disappointing.

“This is dreadfully dull,” Alf declared. He stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out the summons orb. Polishing it a little on his shirt, he held it up to his eyes and said, “Update.”

The swirling smoke in the orb cleared, giving way to the scene of Buffy and Spike. The real Spike, in the flesh, having a heated argument with the Slayer. She was clutching flowers to her chest…flowers that Spike had picked for her? Alf hiked his brows and nodded, impressed. Bold of him, but for her to accept? Alf liked to think his handiwork had something to do with that.

“Aaand she’s running now. Because of course. Slayer feels two-point-five emotions? Time to fucking run.” Alf rolled his eyes and stuffed the orb back in his pocket. He looked around the empty alley and sighed. “And now we’re back to being bored.”

Biting his lower lip contemplatively, Alf took the orb out again. “What’s the other part of the equation doing?”

The cloud swirled, parting. He watched emotion play on the blond vampire’s face: confusion, hurt, then frustration. When it turned into anger, the surly vampire began walking fast out of the cemetery, and towards—

His eyes widened.

Shoving the orb in his pocket, Alf hurried down alleys before turning sharply at a demon bar. With a grunt, he wrenched open the back door, the rusted iron hinges squealing loudly. He slammed the door shut, grumbling.

Alf smiled, triumphant. Nobody paid him any mind. Licking his lips, Alf settled onto a booth and flagged down the bartender. “What’s the hardest thing you got here?”

The squirrely man looked over Alf uncertainly. “There’s a Volvox brew that came in this week.”

Alf frowned. “The plant?”

“Evil unicorn blood. It’s pretty potent.”

His eyebrows hiked up, delighted. “There’re evil unicorns in this dimension?”

“Yeah, uh, they’re…” The man trailed off when the front door flew open. Spike, leather duster fluttering by his feet, shoved the door closed and glared at the other patrons as they silenced.

“Anyone try to jump me and I’ll rip out their eyeballs,” he growled, his tone low and laced with intent.

A demon in the back of the bar coughed loudly, the catalyst for a small murmuring of conversation to resume. Satisfied, Spike sauntered to the bar and threw himself onto a stool next to Alf.

The twitchy bartender, who’d been watching the display, cleared his throat at Spike. “Back for good then, huh? It’s been a while.”

“Sod the small talk and get me my regular,” Spike ended with a growl.

Alf swirled his glass of evil unicorn Volvox blood, listening. He heard the clink of glass settling on wood, and a distinct sniff from the vampire beside him.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Spike said incredulously.

“We’re fresh outta human, man. I swear—”

“Bloody—anything else. Get me any-bloody-thing else other than pig swill!” Alf timed his curious glance at Spike, who took his first notice of Alf. He nodded at his drink. “What’s he got?”

“Volvox,” Alf said helpfully. Spike’s eyes rounded and he turned accusingly to the bartender, who shrank back at the force of Spike’s glare.

“You have Volvox in stock and you serve me pig’s blood? If I didn’t know better, Willy, I’d say you had a death wish,” Spike growled quietly.

“I’m sorry man, you usually don’t like exotic blood! I’ll—I’ll go get a glass now,” Willy spluttered and scampered off, bumping into a shelf before disappearing into the back room.

Alf slid his drink to Spike. “Think you need this more’n me, mate.”

Spike glanced at him coldly. “Don’t need your soddin’ charity, thanks.”

Alf stared pointedly at Spike. He rolled his eyes. “Bloody—fine.” Spike grabbed the glass and downed the blood in one gulp.

Alf watched as Spike blinked once, twice, then licked his lips. He began to smile, then more. And more. Alf frowned and peered at Spike closely. “Are you soused already?” He glanced at the empty glass. “How strong _is_ that?”

“Not soused,” Spike replied. He glared at Willy when the bartender slid a new glass of Volvox blood to him. Spike held up his glass. “This here is an elixir of happy. Different kind of inebriation.”

Alf arched an eyebrow and stared at his now refilled glass. With a shrug, Alf drank deeply.

It burned down slowly, then spread liquid warmth through him. It felt familiar and homely, like slow burning fire, and Alf decided right there he’d bring several cases back to the Djinn realm for Merry to try.

Then, unexpectedly, the warmth in his body became cool, and a short burst of emotion rolled through him—joy, giddiness, and an edge of malice. It made his human skin buzz and his hands itch to crumple something in his hands.

“This is a lot stronger than I thought,” Alf wondered aloud.

Spike snorted and drank his second glass. He set it down on the bar rather unsteadily and ran a hand through his slicked back hair. “Welcome to the Hellmouth.”

“Thank you! You’re the first person to welcome me in this shithole. I knew you were alright.”

“What d’you mean you knew?” Spike looked at Alf suspiciously. “You heard o’ me?”

Alf beamed. “Well, duh. William the Bloody, feared Aurelian vampire? Your name is famous. I only just got here and even I knew that.”

Spike preened a little at that, a self-satisfied smirk lifting his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right! And don’t you bloody forget it. I could squeeze your throat until your eyeballs pop out.” He sniffed the air, then frowned. “What kind of demon are you, anyway?”

“Oh, a super boring one.” Alf waved his hand dismissively. “Like, the very most boring demon you can think of? I’m worse than that. I dimension-hopped here hoping I could learn to be more exciting. True story.”

“A hitchhiking demon.” Spike nodded. “Where’d you jump from?”

Alf paused, thinking quickly. “Er…it’s kind of…a parallel universe? Think of it as the same, but all the demons do nothing. _Really_ boring, you’d hate it there.”

Spike looked impressed. “Yeah? So you’re like, from parallel Manchester, then?” Alf stared at him with surprise, and Spike chuckled. “Could tell from the accent.”

Was that what his accent sounded like? Interesting! “Got it in one,” Alf replied with a little smile.

“You’ve wasted a trip, mate. This world’s not worth the bleeding time.” Spike drained his glass and set it down loudly on the bar. “What is it you do, then?”

Alf frowned. “Do?”

“I get you’re a nancy boy.” Spike gestured at all of Alf in explanation. “You gotta do something, though.”

Alf’s fingers itched to shoot a fireball in the air and show off just a _teeny_ bit. He cleared his throat loudly. “I, uh, I can roll my tongue a few different ways. See?” He stuck his tongue out and Spike looked closely.

“Not that impressive, quite honestly.”

Alf shrugged. “It’s all I can do.”

Spike fiddled with the glass, staring beneath the rim. “Know the feeling. Feel bloody fucking useless ever since I got”—he shot Alf a look—“before the Slayer and her group ruined me.”

“I did hear a rumor there was a slayer here,” Alf said, his voice deceptively neutral.

“Yeah.” Spike snorted. “You ever see that girl, you go the other way. No, no”—Spike straightened on the barstool, his eyes lighting up with excitement and anger—“you charge at her and take that bitch out! Tear her head off and—and—sod her and her bouncy hair and her sad little life and her massive green eyes! I’m done wastin’ my time with the likes of her.”

Alf listened to this thoughtfully. The level of self-denial Spike was displaying would’ve been humorous if the slayer wasn’t already in deep denial herself. “Hmm. Well, I do want to be less boring. Maybe you’re right. I come across this slayer with bouncy hair and green eyes and I’ll kill her. I’ll even say ‘William the Bloody sends his regards’, as a thanks from me to you.”

Spike glanced at him with a slight smile. “You do that, mate.”

Alf nodding, continuing excitedly, “Yeah…yeah! I’ll do it. I’ll get some allies; maybe the local vampire community? Oooh, I could get a sorcerer. Make her life a living hell…pick off everyone she cares about in her life…and then watch the light die out of her eyes. Absolute violence at its best. Killing the slayer’s like the ultimate gold medal, right?” Spike stared at him, no longer smiling. “And then, when it’s all over, I could put her head on a spike as a trophy.”

Spike shot up in a flash. Cold hands dug into Alf’s neck as Spike breathed down his face. “You hurt a single golden hair on that girl’s head and I will rip you apart. Limb from fucking limb.”

Alf hid his smile. He stared up at Spike ominously until the vampire released his hold on Alf’s collar. Spike’s gaze remained trained on Alf’s as he fished a few bills from his jeans pocket and threw it on the bar. Alf watched Spike leave; the vampire was still furious, but in a completely different way than when he’d first come in ten minutes ago.

“Humans,” Alf chortled, pushing off from the bar and heading back outside. “So annoying, yet so easy to predict.”

Just as he closed the door, two snivelly, greasy demons scampered across from him down the alley. Their hair sat limply against their skulls and their faces were scabbed with a level of gross Alf hadn’t seen in a long time. Now _where_ had he seen them before?

“—Her Scrumptiousness will not be pleased to hear we’ve failed again in finding the Slayer’s weakness,” one of the demons whispered harshly. “I highly doubt we will find it in this alley!”

The other demon groaned. “But there’s nothing! We’ve searched tirelessly and—”

“And we go empty-handed? I think not!”

“But Glorifi—”

“OH!” Alf gasped in delight. The two demons turned to him, dismayed at his sudden clapping. “Oh, oh! Oh! I can’t believe I almost forgot about her!”

“Push off, demon,” the demon—one of Glory’s worshippers, Alf now recalled—snarled threateningly at him. At least, it would look threatening if he wasn’t so short and ugly.

Alf nodded agreeably. “I will. Straight to your master. Where does she live? I haven’t seen her in nearly two thousand years. Also, is everyone in this realm blind?” Alf gestured around himself. “Not a demon.”

The weaselier of the two demons spluttered. The other moved forward threateningly. “Our Lady doesn’t dine on your kind, but I’m sure she’ll make an exception for you. Consider it an honor.”

“Mmm, let me get this straight: either I go by myself to Glory, or I go with you to Glory. Are we seeing why…? No?” He grinned at their gaping expressions.

“You dare speak her exalted name?” the shorter minion exclaimed. Alf rolled his eyes and flickered his body so that he instantly reappeared in front of the shorter minion. The demon yelped when Alf grabbed him hard by the crown of his head.

“Sorry, just need a starting point to find her. And since you were last in contact…” Alf explained with a kind smile, ignoring when the other minion angrily burst forward and charged at him. His hands fell through Alf’s incorporealized body and he staggered against his friend.

Alf stepped away from the two of them and gingerly held up the hand that had gripped the minion’s head. His nose wrinkled. “You know, soap exists across all dimensions. There’s no excuse not to use it once in a while.”

“Heinous slander!”

Smiling at their outrage, Alf curled his hand into a fist and followed the invisible imprint he’d found on the minion.

It took less than a moment to pop into a lush penthouse. Pale city light filtered through the row of windows and reflected on a truly garish pink armchair. Alf only managed to take one step before a set of nails dug into his neck.

“Any last words?” Glory’s sickly sweet voice said by his ear.

She gasped when Alf disappeared then quickly reappeared on her chaise, inspecting a champagne flute and grimacing at the lipstick ring.

“You know, I can’t honestly say that I thought about you once or twice in the last thousand years, Glorificus, but finding you here…” Glory’s eyes widened comically when Alf swiveled the glass and it filled with champagne, sans stain. “It explains a lot.”

Glory narrowed her eyes at him for a long moment. Then her face cleared and her jaw dropped in shock. “Afret?” At his slight smile, Glory squealed and dove towards the end of the chaise. “Alf! Oh—oh you have no idea how happy I am to see you! You have no idea what I’ve put up with in this mortal world without a single familiar face.”

Alf snorted. “Yeah, I can see it. I’ve been here three days and already hate this realm. Daytime television? What monster made that shit?”

“I don’t know, but I should suck his brains dry.” Glory laughed giddily, clapping her hands gleefully as she dropped down beside him on the chaise. “Oh, Alf. This has to be it, the sign that I’m exactly where I need to be. I’m getting closer to freedom by the second; I can _smell_ it.” She took a good look at him, taking in the pitch black hair, the simple human attire, and his red glowing eyes. Glory made a little face. “I forgot what you looked like in your human form.”

 “Deplorable, isn’t it?”

“Disgusting. Although this body does have its perks.” Glory ran a thumb over her mint blue French nails. “I cannot wait to return to my true form.”

“Yes…” Alf flickered his eyes over her. “How did you end up in this dimension? I assume you’re trapped.”

“I was cast out, betrayed by my traitorous kind,” Glory spat through her teeth. She jumped up and started pacing before him, wringing her hands through her scalp and destroying the tightly wound ringlet curls. “I’ve been patient, Old One. They think they can get rid of me. You know they didn’t even try killing me? Just threw me through a portal and dropped me in this—this—” She grew increasingly agitated when she couldn’t find the right word. Alf made no move to help her, and she stomped her foot. “I want out. And now I’m finally getting it.”

Alf observed Glory quietly. When he’d accepted Buffy Summers’ summons, he hadn’t gleaned too deeply in her projected future. He knew Glory was Buffy’s obstacle, and that there would be an excess of suffering not only for her but for all those around her if she didn’t overcome it. Looking at Glory now, with her churlish anger and bloodthirst, he saw in her the scores of demons and men he’d watched rise and fall in their own pointless ambition.

Glory noticed his staring and started admiring herself vocally, running her hands over her hips and saying animatedly, “I know right, isn’t this bod amazing? Half the time I’m like, ew, blech, but when I’m like this,” she primped her hair and Alf tilted his head, wondering if it would break the djinni code to behead her when on a separate summons, “I feel better knowing I’m the most beautiful creature on this pathetic planet!” She whirled on him, grinning maniacally. It shrank almost instantly into a frown. “What brings you here? Don’t tell me the great Afret is answering a human summons?”

“I am,” he replied.

“Ugh, _why?_ Why would anyone willingly come here?”

Alf shrugged lightly. “Boredom. Things started feeling like habit, so I answered a wish.”

A spark lit up in Glory’s eyes. “That’s right. You grant wishes to all the little worms on the mortal spectrum.” She dropped herself unceremoniously in his lap, leaning lithely against him. “It’s too bad you can’t grant wishes to other beings. I could zip back home without doing all this mystical Key nonsense.”

“An all-powerful god, needing a wish?” Alf couldn’t conceal his amusement.

“But I’m not, you know. All-powerful. Not like this.” Glory glanced down at herself hatefully. Then she pressed herself more firmly on his lap, shifting her hips enticingly. Alf stared at her. “I don’t need a wish, but I could use a friend. Isn’t that something, Alf? Old friends, you and I. We could help each other.”

Alf couldn’t help it; he started laughing in her face. It took him some time to catch his breath, and he wiped away a tear. “Oh, honey. No.”

Glory’s expression turned furious. “It’s rude to laugh. I don’t have to be nice, you know.”

“Glory, Glory. Where do you see this going? Hmm?” He shook his head at her uncertain look and sat up, gliding through her body until he stood next to the chaise. “I said this to you before, all those years ago. So tragically short sighted. You think you’ll—what? Return to your realm, where more gods stronger and more powerful than you have now evolved, and wreak havoc again? Isn’t that so fucking boring? Oh yeah, kill this, kill that, make the dimensions bleed until all that’s left is yourself. Then what?”

“It’s a start,” Glory replied with thinly veiled anger.

“Look at you. You’ve botched it already, haven’t you noticed? You’ve been sloppy and impatient. You think that’ll fare well in your home dimension? You’ll be obliterated within nanoseconds.”

“ _I’m_ impatient? I’ve waited decades, sharing my body with a human from infancy! You have no idea what I’ve been through, how I’ve suffered. How could you? You’re just another… _thing_ ; a mutt that was made from fire and hoodoo but you’re the same as mortals. You’re nothing. You’re _pointless_.” Her hands dove in her hair, mussing the ringlet curls piled atop her head. “You have no clue how hard it is to be thrown away and stuffed into a little pink human box until you’re destined to fade away from existence completely.”

Alf raised an eyebrow at the end of her tirade. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“You know what, yeah, a little sympathy would be nice!” Glory stood furiously, inches away from him. “Why did you even come here if you weren’t going to help me?”

He lifted a careless shoulder. “I don’t know, really. Interest. Boredom, fascination, curiosity…and a story to tell the other Djinn upon my return.” He tilted his head, staring at her, pitiful as she was. “They’ll be very interested to know what came of Glorificus, the outcast hell bitch with low ambitions.”

A manicured hand wrapped around his throat, cutting off oxygen and circulation that he didn’t need. “I don’t need your help.” Glorificus seethed. “I will return home, and I will rise above all creatures, and I’ll kill anything that tries to stop me. Or gets in my way. Or insults me. So I guess that’s you.”

“Careful, Glory,” said Alf softly.

Glory released his neck with a sardonic smile. “Oh shut up, Alf. I never liked you anyway.”

In the next instant, Glory reared her hands back then forced her fingers through his skull, as he knew she was would do—except there was no searing pain. For Alf, at least.

Glory let out an interminable scream of agony as an inferno of flames raced down her arms from where her fingers were ensconced in Afret’s skull. She yanked her hands out, staggering backwards, and crumpled onto the carpet with rivers of red flames and black smoke pouring down her arms, once porcelain but now the deepest charcoal. She wailed terribly and looked up at him, eyes bright pink and streaming with pain. “You…” Her voice choked on the word, taking in great gulps of air. They stuttered on each inhale and exhale, pierced with anguish.

Alf stared down at her, his expression cool. He had not changed form, but he may as well have with the damage Glory had done to herself. Slowly, Alf clicked his tongue and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I tried warning you,” he told her quietly. “My apologies this mutt has singed you.”

Glory wiped her eye with a burned wrist. “I so don’t need this right now.” With a low sniffle, she glared up at him. “I got the message, okay? I’ll steer clear while you’re here.” Her gaze hardened. “I _will_ be free soon. I’ll be in my true body…and the first realm I visit after destroying mine will be yours.”

Alf smiled down at her through burning crimson irises. “If you say so.”

He watched as Glory’s eyes rolled back and her body transformed before his eyes—golden hair turned to black, a beautiful woman into a handsome young man.

The door to the penthouse flew open and the two minion demons from before let out an outraged cry, looking between Alf and the motionless body of Glory’s human cohabitant. Without a word Alf popped out of there and left behind Glory’s mess. He’d outdone himself tonight with just how much he’d gotten done.


End file.
